The Final Victim Read Online Free PDF

is mostly for show, as far as Phyllida can tell. When she pressed him, he admitted he has yet to join a firm.
        "But don't tell Mother," he warned. "I let her think I accepted an offer last month-just so she won't worry about me," he added at Phyllida's frown.
        As for her, the mere few million she received on her twenty-first birthday barely funded her move to California, a house in Beverly Hills, acting lessons, cosmetic surgery, and her wedding.
        She chose Oakgate as the setting-not out of sentiment or Southern tradition, but because it was free- cost-wise and scheduling-wise. She was pregnant; the wedding had to be thrown together in a matter of months; there was no time to wait for an opening at a glitzy Beverly Hills reception hall.
        Anyway, Oakgate was large enough to hold, and in close proximity to, hundreds of well-heeled guests who came bearing lucrative envelopes.
        Hers was a fairy-tale wedding, the kind she'd dreamed about ever since she was a little girl, despite the fact that she was secretly well into her second trimester when she walked down the aisle.
        But it hasn't been a fairy-tale marriage.
        Well, whose fault is that? You could have married a rich husband , she reminds herself.
        But back then she was still crazy about Brian. With his square-jawed, swoop-haired, preppy good looks and upscale wardrobe, she thought he came from a wealthy family.
        Turned out he was probably a better actor than most of those trying to make it a profession in LA: he grew un in a blue-collar household in Long Beach. When Phyllida met him, he was a caddy at a fancy country club and M salesman in the men's department in Neiman Marcus where he made good use of his natural charisma and his employee discount.
        Infatuated, Phyllida was naive enough to believe them could indefinitely live a Beverly Hills lifestyle on his pay her trust fund, and the wedding booty. But there was always the promise of Remington millions on the horizon-not to mention her acting paychecks once she hit it big.
        So far, she hasn't, though she hasn't given up that dream. But at this point, Phyllida is banking on her inheritance from Grandaddy as optimistically as her brother is, if not as blatantly.
        So, she's certain, is Charlotte. That second husband of hers is some kind of computer technician. He can't possibly be supporting her and Lianna in the style to which they were accustomed.
         Sorry, Grandaddy , but your death is a blessing.
        For all of us .
     
     
        Her palm skimming the polished wood banister as she goes upstairs, Charlotte is reminded of the time Grandaddy caught her sliding down it as a little girl.
        "What on earth do you think you're doing, child?" he boomed, startling her so that she nearly toppled to the marble floor below. 'That isn't a dime-store pony ride. Get down this instant! You know better."
        She did, and it was the first-and last-time she ever broke that, or any other rule of the household. For years after, she would glance longingly at the inviting slope and remember those stolen moments of childish glee, so swiftly curtailed.
        Back then, she was a mere visitor at Oakgate -and an occasional one, at that. Grandaddy's primary residence at the time was a Greek Revival mansion on Orleans Square in Savannah that had been in the family since the eighteenth century. Hardly the sentimental type, Gilbert sold it well before the revitalization of the historic district. Charlotte, who was sentimental, wistfully walked by it sometimes when she was growing up; saw it fall into disrepair, turned into tenements, and ultimately torn down.
        Thank goodness her grandfather chose to keep the immediate grounds and gardens of Oakgate , including the forlorn little ancestral cemetery. The brick main house was built by Charlotte's great-great- greatgrandfather , and its ownership has never strayed beyond the